Jenni Mills - The Buried Circle

THE
BURIED
CIRCLE

Jenni Mills

In memory of my father, Robert Mills, who flew
1916-78
and my mother, Sheila Mills, who danced
1921-2007

I sought for ghosts and sped
Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin,
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.Percy Bysshe Shelley,
Hymn To Intellectual Beauty
Time wounds all heels.Groucho Marx, John Lennon,
and others, including Margaret Robinson Table of Contents

History, archaeology, its all moonshine, really. Were only guessing.Dr Martin Ekwall,
interviewed on BBC Wiltshire Sound
1942Dont be afraid, he says. The Insect King. Its only a mask.Eyes like a fly, elephants trunk thats long, rubberyIts only a mask, he says again.I know its a mask, I says, braver than I feel. But theres masks and masks. Ive seen masks. Ive seen what happens in the moonlight in the Manor gardens.Frannie Its only a whisper, so Im not sure if it came out of his mouth or out of my head. Hes at me now, pressing himself against me, and Im feeling all the bits of him, long gropy fingers and the hard poky bits. Theres a glow in the sky, something burning near the railway yards, searchlights over Swindon, the banshee howl of the warning, and the anti-aircraft batteries have started up.Take it off, he says.The mask?Your flicking robe. At least, I think he says robe.Coat.Whichever.A bit nippy for that. Im trying to keep it calm, trying to be funny, pretend Im in control, because this isnt what I meant to happen. He gives me a push, quite hard, and Im up against the stone. Its cold against my back, like moonlight, and scratching at me like fingers through the thin material of my coat. Theres really nowhere to go now.I would be afraid, but I wont let myself. You cant let them have everything. You cant let them have your fear. You got to keep a bit of yourself. Im going to put my bit where its safe, a long way away from here.Beech trees, black against a silver sky. Somewhere else the real moonlight is pouring down. Bombers moon. A killing moon. Planes like fat blowflies trekking high above the Marlborough Downs. I take myself away, as far as I can, trying not to feel the burning down there, fingers, hands, other things, feels like theres lots of them all at once, wanting a piece.A voice whispering again, Frannie, Frannie . Its terrible dark. Theres a smell of rubber, thick and choking. Hard to breathe. An awful slick, oily smell of rubber

I dont want to do it, I said. Its too dangerous.

Dont be ridiculous. The shots will be fantastic. Youll love it. Unless youd like us to use someone else on the series?

The usual blackmail. If youre experienced enough to do the job, you can say no. If youre not quite twenty-five, and desperate to claw a foothold in television, youll do anything. I made one last pathetic attempt to get him to change his mind. Seriously, Steve, Ive never filmed like this before. Im not properly trained. If this was the BBC, the hazard-assessment form would have it flagged up as a major risk.

Theres a harness, Indy. Youll be strapped in.

My legsll be dangling.

Whats happened to your balls?

My balls, if I had any, would be dangling too.

So, my legs are dangling. My non-existent testicles are dangling. My bum, perched on the edge of the open helicopter door, has gone entirely numb. Below me iswell, if I were a proper cameraman Id be better at judging these things, but Id say a good six or seven hundred feet of nothing. Below that is hard Wiltshire chalk, with a skimpy dressing of ripening barley. The helicopters shadow races across it, a tiny black insect dwarfed by the bigger shadows of the clouds.

Steve, crouched behind me, taps me on the shoulder. I turn my head towards him, very, very carefully, in case even this simple movement unbalances me and I go tumbling out to become another shadow on the chalk. Hes saying something, but the wind and the noise of the rotors snatch his voice away. He makes cupping motions with his hands by his ears.

He wants me to put the earphones on so I can hear himhes wearing a set with a microphone attached. Like I have, too, only mine are round my neck and not on my ears yet, and to put them on Im going to have to let go of my death-grip on the door frame.

With both hands.

I send a signal from brain to fingers to unprise themselves. Nothing happens. Fingers know better than brain whats sensible. Theyre going to stay firmly locked onto something solid, thank you very much, until someone hauls me back safely into the interior of the helicopter and theres no more of this dangling.

Steve taps me on the shoulder again. Maybe if I try just one hand at a time?

My left thumb, fractionally more adventurous than the rest of my hand, comes free. Right. That wasnt so bad, was it? Clear proof it is possible to move and not fall out of the helicopter. In fact, now my thumbs no longer involved, the fingers are really not doing that much to secure me, so I might manage to let go altogether that side

Very good, Indy, but one hand doesnt seem to be much help getting the headset onto my ears. All Ive achieved is to get my hair into my eyes. Should have tied it back more securely. The headset has knocked the pins outs. I cant see. Perfect moment for the helicopter to bank and drop down towards Pewsey Vale.

Oh, God, Im going to fall out

Steves hands gripping my ribs, hot breath in my ear. Let GO! he yells, practically rupturing my eardrum. The shock loosens the other hand. Ive GOT you. His arm snakes round my waist. Now put the flicking headset on.

OK. Not that he can hear me until I do. I could spout a stream of hangover-distilled vitriol and the wind would whip it straight out of my mouth into nowhere. I hate you, you spotty little toilet-mouth. I despise the fact you walked straight out of a media-studies degree and into a job as a producer just because your father was a foreign correspondent for ITN, while Ive had to spend two years hoovering the coke off the edit-suite floor. I loathe that you get to tell me what to do, although Im the more experienced of the two of us and youre far and away the biggest twerp Ive yet met in my admittedly not extensive media career. In fact, right now, because you made me do this horrible, scary thing, Id be delighted if you leaned over too far and tipped yourself out of the bloody aircraft.

Of course, I never would say it, dont really mean it (not all of it, anyway), but imagining it has made me feel a whole lot better. I fumble the headset off my neck and onto my ears, using it as a kind of Alice band to keep my hair off my face.

Everything OK back there? Ed, the pilot, his voice tinny through the earphones.

Marvellous.

Fine. Steve and I speak at the same time, both of us lying through our gritted teeth. He wants Ed to think we bear some resemblance to a professional TV crew; I want the man I slept with last night not to notice Im a gibbering wreck.

Stevethe man I didnt sleep withretracts his arm. Comfortable now?

Comfortable doesnt seem to be in it, but I feel more secure, and can admit it would be pretty difficult to fall out. Tough webbing straps are digging into my shoulders. They join in a deep V at the waist, meeting the belt that circles my middle and the strap that comes up from the groin. Im very glad indeed, now I come to think of it, that I dont have testicles, though to be truthful, life would be less painful without breasts. Wrapped in layers against the wind chill, even though its Augusta duvet jacket I borrowed from Ed over two fleeces, and thermal long Johns under my jeansI could still use more padding under the chafing straps.

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